by Peter Handke
After sunrise, about a mile before the Old Road met the New Road, he came across a person of flesh and blood again, a living soul. It was no longer far to the next settlement, from which he heard, coming over a rise, a jumble of noises, astonishing for this rural area, the noises themselves astonishing, and smelled more and more smoke, streaming from still invisible chimneys, and the wanderer noticed behind him a man who was walking very quietly, noticed him probably only because he had the habit of turning in a circle a couple of times to rest and refresh his gaze. The second wanderer was practically on his heels, walking quietly, quietly, and barely avoided stepping on his foot when he paused for a moment. But not to worry: Everything about the man behind him seemed made for reassurance. Everything about him looked friendly: the eyes, which shone at “me”—“I” was the one meant, “I” alone—the voice that emanated from way down in his chest without his drawing a deep breath, a sonorous voice with a confidence-inspiring timbre; the firm yet not too firm, warm yet not too warm handshake, the spread of his legs, wide yet not too wide (unlike those of soldiers standing their ground), and above all the thick lips, looking as if naturally pursed in a dreamy smile, the kind of lips that in a classic story would have bespoken devotion and bliss, and which reminded him, the wanderer, of the lips belonging to the three kings from the Orient as portrayed in statues back home on the village church, the three of them offering their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh for the newborn babe in Bethlehem, and the sight brought back the names of the kings, which in turn suggested the name of his amiable fellow walker, “Melchior,” and that was the name he bore during the future course of events.
The two of them continued along the last stretch of the Old Road together, as if it were entirely natural. Hadn’t he run into this Melchior time and again during his journey, at the jew’s-harp players’ festival, on the maiden flight from G. to K.? Indeed, his companion played a jew’s harp for a few paces, the newest model from Sardinia, not exactly impressively, but nonetheless. And the former writer then told this Melchior various things about his European tour, long before the night with the rest of us on the Moravian boat. That, too, came about perfectly naturally: Melchior appeared so eager from the first moment; he was all ears even before he had heard anything. And how he then threw himself into everything he heard. A laugh at every other sentence. If he had been seated, he would have slapped his thighs; if another listener had been beside him, he would have poked him in the ribs; and in fact he kept gazing into the empty space beside him, nodding in that direction, as if to say, “Will you listen to that! Isn’t that just too much? So true! So true!” And in that way he gave the storyteller the feeling that his tale was something very special, unique, as if every little episode were an unheard-of event, and as if the individual words and phrases were precisely the right ones and above all occurred at just the right moment—why would this Melchior otherwise have kept repeating them or commenting “Exactly!” “Right you are!” “That hits the nail on the head!”? And finally he threw his arm around the storyteller and walked alongside him, shoulder to shoulder, matching his steps to his, his chubby-cheeked face turned toward him, so close that it made the wanderer feel almost uncomfortable after a while, reading his sentences from the wanderer’s lips and thus progressing from repeating after him to speaking in unison with him, although what came out was mostly a meaningless gibberish, similar to what results when one sings along with a song, trying to guess the words by looking at the singer’s mouth.
Eventually Melchior slapped him on the back and let go of him. There followed a seemingly contemplative silence, during which they walked along side by side for a while. The last segment of the Old Road was laid out as a fitness trail, for the inhabitants of the town on the other side of the rise, waking up with a racket? For Old Road nostalgics weary from the long journey? The only person at the moment who paused briefly at the stations along the trail and followed the instructions on the sign boards was Melchior. He danced, hopped, crawled on his belly, turned somersaults, clambered up a pole with footholds, and when he came upon a sign saying CROSS THE DITCH AT A RUN, he obeyed to the letter, and likewise with TAKE YOUR HEAD IN YOUR HANDS AND PRESS IT THIRTY-SIX TIMES BETWEEN YOUR KNEES! People came toward them from the town in increasing numbers, each by him- or herself, simply out for a morning stroll, leaving the fitness trail to its own devices, and from afar he greeted each walker, waved at all of them with the broadest smile, which was returned rather shyly, also with a surprised expression. At the same time, he made room for each of them, moving to one side, letting the other have the right of way in the narrow stretches with a politeness that could hardly have been outdone. His demeanor as he walked signaled that he was the opposite of one of those space hogs now so common all over the world: he made himself skinny, moved forward in a sort of sideways gait, leading with his hip, as if he were snaking along very cautiously to avoid bumping into anyone, prancing from gap to gap, also hopping now and then like a child, making himself not only skinny but also small, and unmistakably eliciting the sympathy of all those he encountered, of young and old, men as well as women, and dogs as well, all of which made a point of seeking to be stroked by this man, who could have nothing but benign intentions. And at the end or beginning of the fitness trail, with the New Road already in view—the heavy morning traffic almost at a standstill there—he threw himself on his knees, as the pictogram instructed, remaining that way as if in a place of worship, bowed his head, and at intervals touched his forehead to the gravel remaining from the Old Road, his body facing to the east, which could be a display of reverence, probably no longer feigned, to Mecca as well as to Jerusalem.
Melchior remained in that posture for a long time, hardly visible anymore among the luxuriant weeds that had sprung up amid the gravel. No, this was no longer playful; something was happening inside him. And when he finally stood up, it was a veritable leap. But after that he did not continue along the road. What he said to the wanderer, not to his face—he no longer cared to look directly at him—but looking past him, came bursting out of him as he stood there, moving neither foot nor hand. And he said, among other things, “Let it go, my friend. I know who you are. I write, too, not only newspaper articles but also books, even novels from time to time, à mes heures, as the French so beautifully put it. I’ve been following you and your literature for a long time. Your aesthetic literature, your aesthetic books have had their day. Poetic language is dead, it no longer exists, or only as imitation, as posturing. Didn’t you yourself proclaim that you weren’t worthy of your noble profession? So why would you reproach the rest of us for our lack of dignity? We’ve had enough of you writers and your dignity. Any writer today must make a point of being undignified. Yes, those of us writing today have jettisoned dignity once and for all. The Holy Ghost no longer has any part in what we do, and no subject is sacred anymore, and for us no word and no subject is taboo. The dream of the writer as an originator is dead. If only you had learned the art of adaptation in time. Long live the literary adapters; we’re it, we alone. Adaptation is all, I’m telling you, man. Only my language, the language of journalism, still lives. It alone hits the target, nails down the facts, doesn’t put you to sleep. The book about your European tour: I’m going to write it. Most of it’s written already, was already written, finished, before you set out from your Moravian Night; I need only add the names of places and persons; everything was laid out long ago—the plot, which is different from the one you just hinted at to me, the situations, dramatic in a different way, the characters, yes, real ones, not the stuff of dreams, and also the way the characters are characterized, their psyches and also the way their psychology is worked out, the current reality, and also the way it is realized, the climaxes and the elements of surprise, and also the way the ground is laid for them—all that can be learned in any creative-writing program. I was born into money—my private jet is waiting on the other side of that hill—and the most beautiful women in the world caress my chest, whi
ch is bare under the white shirt I always wear, unbuttoned down to my navel. But admittedly the only thing that turns me on is literature. I haven’t succeeded yet, despite my books, despite my novels, despite my plays—I’ve bought up the publishing houses and theaters, of course—in making literature my own, mine alone! But now it will become mine, and no deus ex machina will tear it from my grasp! And you, my man: off with you to the ash heap of history. You’ve already lost the last shreds of your dignity by living in the Balkans, and loving the Balkans. What may have been special about you and those of your ilk, the—listen to me, you wannabe!—creative aspect is no more now than an aberration. The couple of you who still insist on aesthetic qualities aren’t even a minority among those writing and publishing, you who see those qualities as the essential content, in contrast to the majority, engaged in the dominant forms of publication—technical, legal, journalistic; you who think you come closest to the language of nature, of human nature, as allegedly the sole natural and appropriate way of expressing matters of the soul. You’re nothing but dead letters, desperadoes, standing on lost ground. ‘The writer’s profession, a noble profession’: what impertinence, and no wonder you eventually overreached, betraying your principles. Speaking on behalf of noble souls is no longer a profession, no longer fills a book, not even a page. Noble souls exist as they always have, but more among the illiterate than among readers, hardly among readers of books and even less among readers of the press, not to mention writers, wherever they may be. How I know this? I know it because I myself was a noble soul at one time. And those highbrow books were the ultimate, they meant everything to me. Then I lost my soul in midstream, don’t ask me how—if anyone is going to do any asking, I’m the one. It was a gift, a relief. That soul was heavy, you see, so much heavier than the twenty-one grams it allegedly weighs, a burden time and again. Having a soul meant feeling pity, hesitating, being stumped, lacking language, stammering, seeking the magic word, and—as I experienced daily—not finding it, over and over. Getting rid of the soul: no more problems. Especially no problems with language and writing. Adapting means: we already have the words available to describe any circumstance as well as any person, along with that person’s psyche, on hand from the very first sentence, which—no need for hesitation—is not an opening sentence but, short and sweet, an attention-grabber, to the last. If anyone starts nattering on about the soul, the wind, love, the essence of something, I not only laugh in his face but cut him dead. I don’t believe him. He’s lying. Is that clear? Clear. And because I simply don’t believe him, he himself thinks he’s lying. Of course I know from earlier that poetic language is natural, appropriate. But only if there’s real feeling behind it. And none of the writers has real feeling anymore. Didn’t one of your ancestors say long ago that he had to hunt for a whole year to find a feeling in himself? And in the meantime all that’s left is the vocabulary of feelings. And the vocabulary for the soul, and thus also for the feelings, belongs exclusively to those of us without souls, finally and, ultimately relieved, rid of the soul. In the meantime we are the sole proprietors of words and sentences and fill the press with them, as well as books. If at one time being a writer meant creating images, today the language of books is the language of journalism. Otherwise there’s no truth, no reality, no forthrightness. Poetry equals floridness, equals not hitting the nail on the head but taking refuge in flowery sentiments. I’m a rotten person, I know. But at the same time I’m clear about it, so I live with my rottenness and enjoy it. Being clearly rotten gives me power. And I know the others are rotten, too, just like me, and you, too. But you don’t admit that to yourselves, and therefore I have power over you, have an easy time of it with you. By being clearly rotten, I’m right for our time. I’m the monster that dances for joy. When I followed you on your journey, to do research for the novel about you, I already knew what you were like, in what direction to look and how to judge the things I saw. And likewise I already knew how to work the people from your native region into the book. It’s true that I haven’t spoken with any of them, but in my tale they will all appear as hicks, peasants, village idiots, drunks, ex-cons, revisionists, future terrorists, reactionaries, anti-Europeans, eccentrics, and so on. Doubtless I will come across one or two who confirm all that, someone who moved here years ago from another country and ‘still can’t go to the village pub,’ a woman who ‘wants to remain nameless for fear of some act of reprisal by the locals,’ a method I regularly use in my work as a journalist, which I pursue parallel to my novel-writing, as an author should. And if I can’t find the ‘two reliable witnesses,’ I’ll simply invent them, using—what’s the term?—novelist’s license. I’ve envied you for a long time, my good fellow, less for your books—though at one time they spoke to my soul, if I may—than for your being a writer: back in the day, you were considered the gifted one, and I was considered the phony. But now, in my day, you’re nothing but a character in a novel, and perhaps not even that. And nonetheless I hate you, even if the Internet confirms that you don’t represent any danger to contemporary literature. You aren’t writing anymore, or you aren’t publishing, keeping your convulsions and your ecstasies, your quivering seconds—which at one time (see how much I know about you) provided the starting point for your books—to yourself, thanks be to the devil. I hate you because you still stand in my way, and more than ever. You break into my circles and force me to run in circles, without beginning or end, circles that are less a pleasure than sheer hell. I’m going to tear you to shreds, you can count on that, my esteemed gentleman. You will neither return to your village nor to your boat in the accursed Balkans—certainly not there. And thanks to my power, what’s left of your books will go up in smoke this very day, faster than you can look, in the smokehouse behind your ancestors’ farm or somewhere. You wanted to become pure spirit as a writer, and what did you become? A ghost! True: your quivering writerly language came from wordlessness, a primal wordlessness. Without this primal wordlessness, there would be no writing, or so you believe. (And your writing, then, between guilt and elation.) But wordlessness today? As the basis of a writer’s existence? Old hat, snows of yesteryear, not worth mentioning. Every word and every sentence is available nowadays in advance, as prefabricated components, so to speak. Enough of your guilt and also, granted, your elation. The quivering is over and done with, my friend.”
All this and more Melchior brought forth calmly, in his trained voice, with his glowing eyes and his telegenic smile, uttering now and then, without altering the gently oscillating tone, a heartfelt welcome to occasional passersby on the Old Road, as if he owned it. “And how did you get to the village after all and back to us in the Balkans?” the interrupter of the Moravian night asked at this point. “How did you rid yourself of the monster?” “I wished the Wild Hunt on him. I wished him to the devil,” our storyteller replied. “And did the wishing help?” “Yes, for the moment. But he’d keep turning up, in different guises. There’s an infinite supply of his type.” “And how did he go to the devil?” “He shrank instantly into a hedgehog, whose spines shot off in all directions as poisonous arrows, and his face became a grotesque caricature among the grotesque graffiti faces on the wall of an old barn out in the fields.”